


beauty is truth, truth beauty.

by caravaggiosbrushes



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Sex, Bottom James, Captains in love, Crossdressing, Dirty Talk, Dress Fic, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Gender Issues, Genderfluid Character, Genderqueer, Genderqueer James Fitzjames (1813-c.1848), James Fitzjames (1813-c.1848) Wears a Dress, James POV, Kissing, Love, Neck Kissing, Non-Cis Character, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Praise Kink, Rough Kissing, Sex, Slash, THE DRESS, THE GENDER, Tenderness, Top Francis, Topping from the Bottom, fitzjames having The Gender Crisis, non-binary james fitzjames
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26856964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravaggiosbrushes/pseuds/caravaggiosbrushes
Summary: James can't stop caressing the fabric of the dress.He knows it's not the softest thing he's ever touched, but it feels like it: the silk is of such high quality that it feels pleasantly fresh under his trembling touch and looks almost wet to the eye, for how shiny and sleek it is. The deep green shade Francis has picked -which was incidentally complementing the deep red blush on his ears so well,- makes the gown look like a precious jewel itself, so much that James almost feels covered in a cascade of tiny, shining emeralds.-Written for#terrortober2020day 6:dress, and tumblr prompt"Don't look at me like that."
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 19
Kudos: 59





	beauty is truth, truth beauty.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay listen. Months ago [ JennaCupcakes ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennaCupcakes/pseuds/JennaCupcakes) gave me this prompt on tumblr ( ** _99._ ** _"Don't look at me like that._ " + fitzier) from [ this list ](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/622904878424014848/drabble-request-help) and I’ve been writing and re-writing this thing for literal months, because that prompt gave me many many ideas and this is what we've come to, in the end: **_A DRESS FIC_**. My time has come. I’m also using this for [ **#terrortober2020** ](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/628968973367705600/its-terrortober2020-i-want-to-try-inktober) **day 6** , which prompt is: **dress** . :))
> 
> Alternative title of this would be: _James Fitzjames wearing a dress and having Gender Crisis ft. smut._
> 
> **Serious note:** this James is not cis. You’ll see I refer to them as he/him, and then at some point I change the pronoun. I decided not to label them for a few reasons that you can find in the notes at the end. If this were a modern AU I would have used they/them for James right away, but I thought it was better this way since it’s in canon.   
> Thank you so much to [Ewa ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burningfreeze/pseuds/burningfreeze)for beta reading this!! ilysm ;;  
> Enjoy!

_it's how you understand my heart_

_as though you carry it_

_in your body_

_(_ _Rupi Kaur)_

  
  
  


James can't stop caressing the fabric of the dress. 

He knows it's not the softest thing he's ever touched, but it feels like it: the silk is of such high quality that it feels pleasantly fresh under his trembling touch and looks almost wet to the eye, for how shiny and sleek it is. The deep green shade Francis has picked -which was incidentally complementing the deep red blush on his ears so well,- makes the gown look like a precious jewel itself, so much that James almost feels covered in a cascade of tiny, shining emeralds. 

He keeps looking and peering at himself in the big oval mirror, and in the small one, angling it around so that he can look at how the dress falls on his back. And God, it looks- weirdly, surprisingly, incredibly: beautiful. It looks appropriate. Right. Made for this body. 

Up until the last moment, James was utterly convinced it would have looked ridiculous on him. More: that he would hate it on himself, on this body of his, clearly not made for such an elegant, feminine garment. He hated and feared the idea of coming to despise this beautiful dress just because he is not- right? beautiful? suitable enough? to wear it.

As it turns out, his torments were unjustified: the moment he finishes putting it on, buttons almost completely closed -the ones in the center of his back are a bit tricky to get into their buttonholes, he'll have to ask Francis for help,- laces all in order and petticoats adjusted as best he can -God, _how many_ are there?- he feels perfect. 

Every part of the dress clings so well to every single line of his body, making him look even taller and leaner, in a delicate way. The bustier hugs his stomach in, emphasizing his narrow waist by contrasting with the soft roundness of the skirts; his chest looks good and the missing of a soft bosom doesn't look ugly in the slightest: the dress is tailored for someone with small breasts, so James' wide chest fills it not perfectly, but very nicely nevertheless. There is indeed a bit of empty space between his chest and the fabric, but it doesn't ruin the final image, quite the contrary in fact: it makes him look tempting, as if he'd left the gown a bit loose on purpose, to draw people's eyes on his bosom-- on what he doesn't have, but might have had, in a different life. The thought makes him feel lightheaded and he has to hold onto the wall, clutching his other hand at his chest. Caressing himself. Palming himself through the luxurious fabric. 

A warm shiver runs through his body.

"James?" Comes Francis' voice from the other side of the door. "Do you need any help? I can help you." There’s a short pause and then, in a rush: "Please, do not feel pressured to do any of this. I understand if you’ve changed your mind."

The fact is that no, James hasn't. At all. 

He wants this more than anything. 

The question is: can he have it?

"I haven’t." His voice barely comes out. He clears his throat, trying again, "I'm almost done. Give me a moment."

He checks his back in the mirror once more: the "v" of the neckline looks incredibly deep and scandalous on him, his pale skin very noticeable on that exposed area between the hem of the dress and his hair- _his hair_. James pushes it on the side, to see what he would look like, just to try, out of curiosity, and his breath catches in his throat. He looks... He looks-

"Beautiful." He whispers, almost unconsciously and immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. _Don't talk, if you talk, if you put this into words, if you put this into the world, then it will become real. Everyone will know you're a deviant. You have to keep everything hidden inside of you, no one has to see your shame._

No one except the only person that would understand. James prays he will understand. He has no idea what he's going to do if he won't.

He takes a deep breath, lets his hair fall back over his shoulders, framing his face. He throws one last glance at his reflection in the biggest mirror, unable to believe that the person in there it's himself. Herself. Himself. His shoulders are broad and muscular, but the dress hugs his arms so beautifully, making them look lean and delicate. They look like a woman's. His hands are big, but elegant in their movements, his nails clean and in order. Her hair is long and wavy, his face strong and imposing, but her eyes are soft and surprised and full of wonder.

James turns around, reaching for the door. Stops with his hand mid-air, close to the knob. Takes a few steps back, going back to where he was just a moment ago, his back to the mirror.

He takes one last deep breath, then swallows. 

"I'm-" I'm, what? _I'm praying to God that you won't laugh at me because it would make me crumble to pieces. I'm hoping that you won't think less of me for this. I'm ready to laugh at myself, make a joke out of it, tell you it doesn't mean anything to me, it's just a game, I'm sorry about the money you've splurged on this, I have no idea what I was thinking back then when I asked you, I'm gonna pay you back of course, every penny, because it was just a stupid idea. It's just a stupid idea and it's the best feeling in the world. Please accept this version of me. I’m still me._

James opens his eyes. "Come in."

Just when the door is opening, he thinks about the buttons on his back, still open. He couldn’t even do that. He’s not worthy of wearing this dress, does not deserve it, he should rip it off and shove it away and watch it burn.

Then, he sees Francis, and notices how Francis is staring at him and James forgets about asking for help for his dress’ buttons. He forgets about everything. 

Francis is looking at him with that expression James has seen on his dear face some other times, like the first time James has been naked in front of him; or that time James was standing in front of him in full uniform, for the first time after they came back, in one piece once again; and that other time when James was in his nightshirt, brushing his hair mindlessly in front of the mirror and Francis has met his eyes in the reflecting surface, gaze burning like a wild fire. All those times and right now, Francis was and is looking at him as if he’d never seen something as marvelous as James. As if he can’t believe his own eyes.

James can almost feel the weight of his gaze on his own skin, another velvety touch.

“James.” His voice comes out rough, and low. It makes something in James’s belly go wild. He wonders if Francis can tell he’s getting aroused, with the dress on. 

Does it show? Can he smell it? Francis always loves to push his face in between his thighs, in the crook of his neck and in between his thighs, babbling about how good James smells. 

His cock is quickly filling up beneath the skirts. He has stripped off every undergarment, so it feels incredibly scandalous to stand here, in the middle of his bedroom, with the lower part of his body exposed to the air but not yet to Francis's eyes.

Then Francis takes a step into the room and James promptly lowers his own eyes, because his heart is beating way too fast in his chest and he's afraid Francis will be able to read everything that's happening in his head and in his stomach and in between his legs. So he focuses on Francis' hands instead. But that only makes him self-conscious about his own hands: where should he put them? Should he let them rest over his stomach, just above the skirts? He would look stupid and imperfect, his hands are too big for this, they would look like seagulls perched on his dress. He can't even remember what ladies _-real_ ladies,- do with their hands when they stand up like this, where do they put them? How do they move? How they-

"James." 

He comes back to the present. Francis is looking at him, still motionless and very quiet, resembling a statue. 

James wishes he would just speak his judgement already, because this waiting is maddening, he can feel his face burning up.

"Francis." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Please… Don't look at me like that." He threads a lock of hair behind his ear, only to have an excuse to lower his gaze and keep his hands occupied. For that same reason he then presses both hands on the front of his dress, smoothing out inexistent wrinkles and folds. He does it once and then once more, because the idea of looking at Francis' face right now is too much. He's never been so nervous in his life, not even when he was standing in front of the admiralty for the first time, or when he was first introduced to Sir John and then Francis himself (and he _was_ nervous back then).

It's crazy to think that _this_ is more meaningful to him than any of those past occasions.

He forces himself to lift his gaze up to the other man, and finds him standing just a couple of steps away from him _-when_ has he moved?- completely still, as if frozen. 

Francis’ posture is strong and straight, too straight, he looks like he's holding his breath. The only thing that gives his true state away is the blush on his cheeks, nose and the tip of his ears, which is turning a deeper shade of red with every passing second.

Francis looks speechless and is, in fact, quiet. He parts his lips as if to say something, but ends up gaping like a fish out of water. It takes him a few attempts to finally get the words out.

"Look at you like…" he seems to forget how to form words, "Like what?"

James shrugs lightly, faking a confidence he doesn't have in the slightest: gone is the man who narrates his adventurous stories at every single party he attends, gone is the man who always speaks in a too loud voice because everyone _must_ listen to him, _must_ know he's here, _must_ see him- and welcome is this version of himself, who feels exposed both physically and mentally, who feels gentle and delicate in a way he has never even known it was an option. He feels the nape of his neck burning from agitation, shame and awkwardness in equal measure under Francis' gaze; his feet are starting to get cold on the bare floor, and he really feels like going back in the other room and tear this -pretty, wonderful, beautiful, disastrous,- dress off and never look at it again. 

He wants Francis to forget this shameful display. He wants Francis to reassure him and tell him he looks good. He wants Francis to ravish him.

Perhaps it's because his neck and the upper part of his chest and his shoulders are completely exposed to the chilly air, and he can feel his long hair tickling his shoulders, that he pushes it over the right side of his neck, leaving the left side of his shoulders bare and, oh, Francis' gaze has followed his every single movement and he looks positively shocked. 

James snaps his hand back down. He shouldn't have done that, he probably looked ungraceful and stupid.

"Ah, just," James shrugs again -why is he doing this? He has no idea,- and the movement makes the dress falling just a tiny bit down on both shoulders. "You look like you've never seen me before."

Which is not exactly what he meant to say but he doesn't know how to say _'you're looking at me as if you're thinking that I'm beautiful, but in a different way than usual. I don't know how to take this. I've never felt so seen. Can you read all of my secrets and all of my terrible, disgusting thoughts, this easily as well?'_

Francis swallows visibly. "I've seen you, but never like this before," he says, and then, "James-" a pause. "Good god, you-" another pause. He swallows again. Licks his lips, "James," repeats. He sounds breathless, almost. Francis takes one step towards him. "Can I touch you."

James' heart, hidden under all those layers of silk and satin, skips a beat.

"You… Want that?" He asks, "Isn't this-" abominable. disgusting. sinful. sick. "-strange?"

"Yes," Francis says, almost in a whisper, and James' heart drops. "But in all the best possible ways." He swallows hard, gaze lingering on James' chest. "It's like having a very nice dream."

And then Francis covers the remaining distance between them in two long strides and just like that Francis' hands are everywhere on him- all at once _everywhere_ on him. "Christ, you look…" He breathes directly on James' neck, hands clutching at James' sides, right above the skirts. "Exquisite."

And James is helpless, his knees feel like pudding and he has to hold onto Francis' arms to keep steady; his entire body vibrates with agitation, and now he feels it, coming in full force, a wave of powerful arousal so sudden and violent it takes his breath away. He tightens his hold on Francis' arms, arching his neck to give him space, give him everything, take it, take what's already yours, use it, wear it out, wear _me_ out.

His legs fall open on their own accord to welcome Francis in between them, as he pushes a hand in Francis' hair to keep his face pressed against his neck, arching his back against Francis the more he can. In answer, Francis places both hands on the small of his back, and pulls him against himself, making James moan softly at the feeling of his strong body and the line of his manhood against himself. His perked nipples rub against the fine fabric of the dress and it sends a spark of blinding heat in between his legs. He tries to get one leg around Francis’ side, planting the heel against his backside to keep him close, and he’s probably ruining the skirts, this is not how a lady would move, but good God, he _needs_ to feel Francis-

James wants this so badly he could cry.

"James." Francis is saying, face still buried in his neck, leaving a myriad of wet kisses and licks on James’ warm skin, his hands roaming all over James' back and his sides, until he gets one of them under James’ knee, still over the skirts, and pulls him in. They groan in each other's mouths. 

James feels feverish and open and- wet, God, he’s _so_ ready for Francis.

"James-" Francis sounds broken, sounds exactly like James feels, "beautiful," he whispers, kissing his neck and his face, fighting with the skirts to push them up, "you're beautiful, Christ- Incredible- _James_."

His heart is beating so hard he fears it might break his ribs.

"Please," James closes his eyes, hands grasping at Francis’ shoulders. "Francis, I want-"

"Anything." Francis kisses his mouth, but it feels like he wants to push all of himself into James, get to his very soul. It has him moan loudly, unprepared for this assault, for Francis’ tongue claiming him as if he were a new land, a virgin territory to conquer. James wraps both arms around him, a hand in his hair, both to keep him exactly where he is (between James' legs, in James' arms) and to steady himself.

"Anything, everything you desire." Francis says on his mouth, breath hot. James realizes with a jolt of pleasure that he’s rubbing himself in small circles against him. Francis places a hand on the side of his face, “Do you want me to take you, love? Let me take you, God, please, I need it.”

He’s never felt this excited in his life, ever. He nods urgently.

Francis pushes his tongue in James' mouth and pushes him against the wall, tearing another moan out of him just because of that- being manhandled by Francis is not a novelty, and yet this is different from before: James doesn't tries to resist him or slip away from under his hands as he sometimes likes to do, to make Francis a touch more desperate; instead he lets him decide what to do with him, completely at his mercy. Francis could ask James to kneel on the floor and wait there for hours, and he would do that. He would cry from frustration and exhaustion, but sweet God, he would do that and he would kiss Francis' feet when he’d come back to take him. He’d be so good for Francis.

But there is no need for that: Francis is not going to leave him, he's firmly planted in between James’s legs, both hands now fighting with the cascade of fabric of his skirts to touch him. He grunts directly into his mouth when he finally manages to get both hands under the skirts, one under James’ leg draped around him, the other on his naked backside, under the fabric. “Yes, yes, please-”

James clings to his shoulders because this is so much and he can't believe it's happening _now_ , to _him_ , with _Francis_ , and he can't even imagine what it will feel like to have Francis' hands on him and Francis’ cock in him like this.

"You're perfect," Francis sighs on his lips, wet with their spit, "The most enchanting thing I've ever seen."

James' hips buck upwards. " _Francis-_ "

Francis places both hands on the side of his face and kisses him on the lips, sweet and gentle this time. He looks in James' eyes, his gaze still full of urgent fire, but there is also a softness to it. His voice is rough, but tender when he speaks. "I've never seen anything as beautiful as you."

James shuts his eyes. They're burning with unshed tears and shame and happiness and he's sweating, the fine fabric of the dress clings to his armpits, he's not beautiful, he's a mess, he's doing everything wrong-

But Francis doesn’t seem to care: he’s leaving gentle kisses on his cheeks; his strong hands are still on the side of his face, thumbs touching him gently, moving in slow circles. James realizes he's breathing so hard he can barely hear what Francis is whispering, "...my beautiful James. Everything is alright, you're alright. You're more than I would have ever dreamed of, beautiful and perfect."

James squeezes his eyes shut so hard he sees strange colorful shapes behind his eyelids. He clings to Francis for dear life. He searches for a way to say it, but he has never said it before, not even in his own mind, so the words slip away again and again.

"I" his voice is just a whisper when he finally says: "I want this. So much."

There is a moment of stillness, before Francis' mouth is on his, once again. This kiss is sweet, deep and full of the words hidden in both of them, that they don't know how to reach on their own. Francis kisses him and kisses him, gently coaxing his mouth open, and it’s such a contrasting feeling with his burning hardness rubbing against James.

"Then let me give it to you." Francis murmurs on his lips and, could this be? Could James be this lucky, is this really for him? Has Francis really understood what he means?

He opens his eyes.

"Sometimes I'm not a man." 

The words leave his lips without his consent. He's not even sure he's said it until he watches Francis' reactions: his eyes light up, he nods minutely. There is no disgust on his face. A hint of confusion perhaps, but even that it’s suffused by acceptance. He's still drawing those slow circles on James' cheeks with his thumbs.

Again, James feels the need to cry. 

"That's alright." Francis says, because of course Francis says that. He's the most incredible man James has ever known. "You can tell me more. _I want_ to know more of it." He kisses James on the lips and James tastes salt and realizes: he’s really been crying. He touches his own cheek, finding one single tear. He's also shaking lightly, he notices, watching his other hand trembling on Francis’ shoulders, but it’s a weird experience, his body feels like it doesn’t belong to him. Even less than usual, anyway.

"It’s just that..." Even his voice is shaking, he realizes, feeling pathetic. He avoids Francis' eyes for what follows. "Sometimes I'm not a man, sometimes I'm-"

He chokes on nothing, unable to say it.

"A woman." 

James closes his eyes, nods. He expects more questions, an insult, a shout, he expects a slap across his face, a punch in his stomach, and to be left alone.

Instead, what he gets is: another kiss -close to his ear,- a gentle touch -from his hair to the side of his neck,- and a whisper -"the most beautiful woman I've ever seen”-.

It makes him burn both from arousal and a shameful happiness, so big and bright, something he has never experienced before and doesn't even have the proper term for. He swallows it down.

"Do not mock me, Francis." He says through gritted teeth.

"I would never." His answer is urgent, begging James to understand, "You're the most beautiful _person_ I've ever seen. And whoever you are, I'm in love with that person."

James can’t let himself believe it. Can he?

"How can you say something like that when I-" There's a knot in his throat, "-look like- _this_."

"Darling," Francis grabs both of his hands in his own, clutching them gently close to his chest, "can I tell you how beautiful you are? Let me."

God, he wants it, so much.

He nods, gaze fixed in the centre of Francis' chest.

Francis carefully pushes a streak of hair away from his eyes.

"You're the loveliest girl I've ever seen." 

James' eyes snap up on Francis' face. He's looking at James with that adoring gaze of his and it's just- too much. James hides his face against Francis' neck and shoulder, hugging him so tightly it must be hurting him. "Am I? Do not lie to me."

Francis' hand is on the back of his head, threading his fingers in James' hair, stroking it soothingly. He feels a kiss above his ear, soft and sweet. 

He feels Francis' other hand on his naked back, the tip of a finger following James' naked skin to the lowest point, stealing his breath away. 

Francis' voice is gentle and honest: "I would never lie to you." He says, "A beautiful woman" he whispers, voice full of affection, "that's who you are. _My_ beautiful woman."

James keeps his face hidden. Waves her hips just so, against Francis'. "Would you” swallows the shame down, “call me like that again?"

"Beautiful?" 

"No." James shakes her head again. She can feel her cheeks burning. "You know what. The other."

"Ah." Francis whispers. He's playing with James' hair, wrapping it around his fingers, "I think you mean ‘pretty’."

Yes, he does, God, _he does,_ he wants Francis to peel this dress away from his body while telling him how pretty he is and he wants Francis to push his hands under his skirts and his fingers inside of him where he’s wet and ready for him, he wants- he just _wants_. So much.

"Do you want me to tell you how pretty I think you are?"

But he can’t say it-

"Francis-"

" _Do you?_ "

" _Yes_ ," he sobs, pushing his face desperately against his shoulder, "God yes, please, please-"

There is no more shame here, there is just Francis and his big hands roaming all over his body, making him real. Her.

Francis kisses him on her cheeks, on her lips, embracing him, keeping him safe.

"You're the prettiest thing I've ever seen." A whisper in his hair.

It’s too much, she can barely breath. "Oh God."

Francis moves them towards the bed, still embracing each other, and somehow they make it without stumbling over James’ skirts, all ruffled now.

"Will you let me kiss you everywhere?” Francis pushes him gently on their bed and James shifts up bringing him with her keeping a hand behind his head. He nods fervently on his lips.

Francis locks their lips again, then moves down to kiss her on her neck, on her chest, down to the hem of the dress’ neckline. 

“Fuck.” James arches her back and pulls her skirts up hastily, so she can wrap both legs around Francis. “Keep going.” Pushes both hands in Francis’ hair, who lifts his gaze up on her, lips still on her skin- his eyes are bluer than usual, his gaze confident and hungry. He keeps looking at James while he speaks, “Here, on your breasts? You’re going to let me suck on your nipples and let me fill my hands with your tits?" 

" _Francis-_ " Her eyes burn. 

Francis places both hands on her breasts, pressing the heels of his palms on her still covered nipples and the moan that tears out of her is so loud it startles her. She slaps a hand over her mouth, and is about to apologize for the shameful display, but Francis is quicker.

"Bloody hell, James- fuck, let me suck on them- please, you must-" he licks a strip in the centre of her chest up to her neck, grabbing at her thigh under her skirts, apparently unable to stay still. 

"Yes, yes, please, _yes-_ " She's trying to tear the dress off, but her mind is clouded with too many things and can't think straight, until suddenly she remembers that the buttons are- "Fuck," James swears softly, biting at her lower lip in frustration, "the buttons- the corset is-" she pushes herself up on her elbows, "they’re on my back." 

"Right." Francis flips her over easily and just like that James finds herself on her hands and knees in front of him. She looks back over her shoulder and finds him with hungry eyes, his face blushed red from obvious arousal, a hand already on James' hips, the other one- the other one is rubbing at the front of his own pants. He’s touching himself while watching James on all fours, wearing a dress, her first dress. It sends a violent spark of lust across her stomach all the way in between her legs, making her thighs shake.

Francis groans in frustration. “You have no idea how you look right now,” then opens and pushes his own pants down, freeing that gorgeous prick of his, and the mere sight has James’ mouth watering. She lifts her hips up in a clear invitation, and has a vision of Francis taking her like this, the dress still on, skirts pushed up high on her back all the way over her head, Francis fucking into her with short staccato strokes-

She's so wet she almost fears the moment Francis will actually get his hands on her: a proper lady doesn't get herself this dirty.

Well, good manners can go to hell: James is a lady and she wants Francis, and she wants him _now_. Nothing’s gonna stop her.

She grabs a handful of her skirts and pushes them up on her back, hoping Francis gets a good view of how ready she is for him.

Judging from his muffled " _fuck_ " he probably does.

“James,” he’s panting, “You’re wet. When-”

“After I finished putting the dress on, while I was waiting for you.” She circles her hips slowly, “I got so excited I had to touch myself.”

Francis is completely still for a moment. Then, he all but throws himself on James, draping his own body over her back, making her fall back down on the bed with a surprised little yelp. Francis’ hands are on the dress’ buttons on her back, trying to tear them free with curt, hurried movements. He puts his mouth close to James’ ear and whispers, “What a naughty little girl I have.”

She gets blinded by desire. “ _Fuck._ ”

Francis shoves an arm under her chest and lifts up on his knees, bringing her up with him. The buttons on the back are not completely undone, just a few of them, -James judges from the cool air she can feel on her skin- but it’s all that it takes to make the dress slide down a couple of inches on her arms and chest, the neckline now brushing over her nipples, barely covering her. She has the strange impulse to push the fabric back up, to cover herself, because that’s what a lady does. 

But a lady has no need to cover herself up when she’s with her beloved, she thinks, so James grabs at one of Francis’ hands and brings it on her breasts, moaning as soon as Francis starts touching her, groaning in her ear while nudging his hips against her, his hardness rubbing where she most wants him. 

“Jesus Christ, James,” his voice is low, “you want me to play with you like this, mh?”

Francis takes a nipple in between his fingers and twists it lightly- too lightly. James groans and pushes her hips back against him. “Harder.”

“Fucking hell,” Francis swears, his forehead on James’ temple. He twists her nipple again, while squeezing lightly. James feels it in between her legs, and lets her head fall back on Francis’ shoulder, mouth slack as he keeps playing with her like that, touching and twisting and pressing both hands over and under her dress. 

“Look how pretty you are,” Francis whispers on her lips, “Look at you, open your eyes James, see how beautiful you are.”

Opening her eyes feels like a challenge right now, as overcome with arousal as she is, but Francis is asking, so she obeys, looking down at her and- and almost tears up again because of what she sees: Francis’ hands on her, one over her dress, squeezing the fabric and her bosom pleasantly, the other one underneath it, playing with her perked nipple. It feels so right. It feels like she’s exactly as she has always imagined, in the back of her head. The dress has slipped down on her right shoulder, leaving her exposed, and Francis is alternating kisses on the side of her face and bites on the side of her arched neck.

“Do you see it?” Francis asks, breath coming in hot puffs on James’ skin, “How lovely you are?” 

She doesn’t know what to say, does not have the words to thank him properly, doesn’t know how to tell him that yes, she sees it now, now that James is in Francis’ arms everything feels right, but it has never happened before, not like _this_ , so the words fail _him_ and _her_. So instead, he turns his face towards Francis and kisses him, messily and desperately, confused and overwhelmed but also feeling in the right place, in the right moment and in the right shape, for the first time in her life.

“Take me.” She whispers on his lips, “Don’t make me wait any longer. I waited long enough already.”

Francis looks like he wants to say something, but then nods easily, giving her a quick peck on the lips. “Like this, is that alright? In my arms.”

“Yes, yes, like this.” She says on his lips, “Don’t stop touching me.”

“Would never dream of it.” One of Francis’ hands moves away from her chest to position himself against her- to push into her in a long, deep thrust that has both of them groan in unison.

“Oh- yes.” James keens, a hand on Francis' side to keep him close, “More. Francis...”

“I’m here, I’ve got you.” He murmurs on her neck, flushed and sweaty, then thrusts deeper into her, his hips bucking against her, tearing half a shout out of her. “Fuck, ‘m sorry-” Francis kisses her behind her ear to apologize, stopping his movements.

“No, that’s perfect, go on,” she urges him, tightening the grip on his side, probably leaving red angry marks on his skin with her nails. She’s gonna kiss and lick them later to apologize. “It’s good, I can take it.”

“Fuck, James,” he thrusts into her again, and then again and again, setting a slow, deep pace, burying his burning cock into her, splitting her open perfectly.

James feels delirious with it: she has to remind herself to breath, in big gulps of air that are always interrupted by Francis’ cock, pushing so deep into her that she feels it in her throat.

Francis is mumbling a litany of dirty and tender words on her skin, “So good, you feel so good, my love…” and “so wet for me,” and hearing his voice directly in her ear has her writhing in his arms, arousal washing over her in burning waves.

“Touch me, Francis,” James begs him, “I’m close, I want to finish with you in me.”

Francis bites on the side of her neck -James can’t wait to study her reflection in the mirror and touch and press on all of those lovely marks,- and place a hand under her skirts, on her front. The relief is so violent she almost spills with that single touch, “ _Yes_.”

But Francis doesn’t takes her in hand, as he usually does, as James usually does: instead, he touches her where he’s dirty of her own release, and then presses his entire palm on her, rubbing against her like that, the heel of his hand where she’s wet, his fingers lower, curling under her body, almost joining his own prick- and James realizes it: Francis is touching him like he would touch a lady.

“Oh- God, _yes-_ yes.” James can feel herself get even wetter with the realisation, her thighs twitch with the first waves of her pleasure. “Francis, Francis-”

“Do you like getting touched like this?” 

“Yes, oh,” she feels tears in her eyes, threatening to spill. “Yes.”

Francis pounds into her, “Told you you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” He pants, babbling now, “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever taken and touched, Christ, James, you feel so good.”

Then Francis stills his hand on James -but not his hips, still thrusting into her in small, short strokes,- and only touches her with his middle and index fingers, spreading her wetness all over her, in all the most sensitive spots and that is _it_ , James’s body seizes up without a warning, without her consent, and it feels endless, it’s violent and sudden and her legs give out, and if she’s still upright it’s just because of Francis’ arms around her and Francis’ prick inside of her, keeping her together.

She distantly registers all the different sounds filling the room: her broken moans, Francis’ grunts of pleasure, the slap of skin on skin, the constant shuffling of her dress’ fabric, their heavy breathings, Francis’ babbling of “beautiful,” and “pretty,” and “lovely James,” and “‘m gonna spend into you, push it all deep into you, here,” he places his hand -the one that’s not wet with her enthusiasm,- on her belly, “filling you up with my seed.”

“Do it, _yes_.” 

She places her own hand over his and closes her eyes, picturing it: her body full of Francis, full of the most beautiful and precious thing two people can create together, the proof of their mutual love and adoration. “Fill me up, Francis.”

James clenches around him and Francis stills, tightening his embrace on James, face buried in her neck, a hand over James’ belly, his cock spurting so deep into her that she can feel it pulsing almost in Francis’ hand.

They fall forwards in a mess of skirts, lacy crinolines and sweaty limbs. The dress is sticking on a few places with sweat and their fluids. She should probably take it off to avoid ruining it even further, but she doesn’t want to put an end to… this. Plus, Francis’ body over her is a lovely weight, it helps her clear her mind. James opens her eyes when Francis starts leaving small kisses on the side of her face. Now that the urgency has subsided, it feels so soft and gentle that it makes her smile dreamily.

“I know I should move and let you breath,” Francis murmurs on her cheek, “but damn all, you still feel so very good.”

“I can breathe just right, silly,” James gives a huff of a laugh, “no need to move. Not yet.”

He interlaces his fingers with Francis’. He will never get tired of looking at their joined hands, especially after moments like this, when they feel as one.

Francis leaves a loud kiss on her hair that makes her laugh, then slides out of her with a low groan, making her shiver pleasantly. “Don’t move, or you’ll get your dress dirty.”

_Dirty with your spend_ , James realizes with a shudder, tempted by the idea of touching herself and feeling it, Francis’ seed on her skin, on her opening, still loose after their lovemaking. She could push it back inside of her with her own fingers, make sure not a drop goes wasted. 

She could, but while she’s picturing it, Francis comes back with a washcloth and settles back next to her. He has discarded his own pants and waistcoat, and is just in his shirt, falling loose over his thick thighs. His soft cock visible now and then underneath it with his every movement makes James’ mouth go dry.

“Oh!” She cries, surprised, when Francis cleans her in between her legs and on her back with the wet washcloth.

Francis stills. “Too warm?”  
“No, ‘s good.” She’s just so sensitive that even the barest pressure has her sighing softly.

Francis cleans her carefully, then opens every button on her back and peels the dress away from her- him. Her. James avoids looking down at her body, doesn’t want to end the illusion just yet. She lets Francis take care of the dress, and quickly slips under the cover. It’s still the middle of the day, they really shouldn’t lounge around like this, but James is feeling good about herself and himself and this is so new that she wants to relish it and savour it. 

She curls around Francis as soon as he rejoins her, pushing her face in his soft hair. Francis embraces her immediately, leaving a tender kiss on the top of her head. He pushes one knee in between her legs.

"Francis," she whispers after a moment of perfect quiet, "do you... like me like this?"

"I always like you,” comes the confident reply, “there could be no way I wouldn't like you. Understand?"

James can only nod, chest rising and falling quickly with disbelief at her luck.

"But do you like me better this way?" She insists, "It's alright if you don't. I just would like to know."

"James, I liked you immensely." He looks in James’ eyes, "And I like you immensely when you're in your usual clothes. This was, of course," he takes a shuddering breath, "a nice surprise. Wonderful. _You_ are wonderful, James. Whatever you decide to wear, whoever you are, you’re still you. And this old man would not stop cherishing you for a dress."

“You’re not an old man.” He smiles, the tips of their noses brushing, “You’re a blessing.”

“Shush.” Francis’ embarrassed smile is endlessly endearing. Then he furrows his brows and his gaze gets more serious. “Can I still call you ‘James’?”

A blessing. That’s what Francis is.

“Yes.” It’s everything James manages to say, choked up.

“Good. I like it.”

This has her arch an eyebrow. “My name? You never told me.”

He shrugs easily. “There are other things about you that I love more and I like to praise them better.”

“Such as?”

He scoffs, “You know them already.”

“Perhaps I forgot and I need to be reminded.” She smiles, and with one graceful motion pushes herself in Francis’ lap, hands on his chest, “What is it that you like about me, Captain?”

“It’s a long list.” He says with a glint in his blue eyes, “Sure you’re ready to hear it all?”  
“I certainly am.”

“Well then,” Francis lifts a hand up, touching her hair, “Your hair-”

“My hair?”

Francis huffs a laugh, “If you’re going to interrupt me at every point we’re not going to go any far in this.”  
James smiles and shifts in his lap, “Alright, alright, I’ll keep quiet.”

Francis arches a brow almost comically. It makes James laugh wholeheartedly.

“I can keep quiet, you know?”

“Only when I stuff your mouth with something.”  
“ _Captain!”_

They never make it to the end of the list.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Title stolen from John Keats.
> 
> \- In this house we don’t know what undergarments and underwear are *shrug emoji* 
> 
> \- James’ dress looks like[ this ](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/80/13/62/801362fd2781562e7d686c77984875a9.jpg)but with longer sleeves. (were three quarters sleeve a thing back then?) 
> 
> \- I consider myself as a cis woman, so I apologize if anything in this story might be seen as offensive towards transgender people (which of course it wasn’t my intention). I hope I did a good (decent?) job at writing James, but please feel free to tell me if I made a mess of something. 
> 
> \- James is not cis here, but I left it open, deciding not to define them with a specific gender identity, because 1) we’re in Victorian times and those lebels weren’t a thing yet; 2) I thought it went better this way with the story: James kind of experiences this big Gender Crisis right now, so they don’t really know how to define themselves either (although it's probably not the first time they have these thoughts). This is why I started writing James with he/him, but towards the end I kept shifting between he/him and she/her: I wanted to express their confusion, but also their hope about being able to define themselves as someone who's not just ‘he’. 
> 
> \- [rt](https://twitter.com/downeymore/status/1313530212316057602?s=20) \+ [reblog](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/631247875297378304/beauty-is-truth-truth-beauty)!
> 
> \- your kudos and comments make me, James and Francis all very happy :)


End file.
